strangers, and other family
by that dark-haired girl
Summary: "The kids are the worst part - everyone agrees on that." Two nights for Luke and Moira in Little America.


The kids are the worst part - everyone agrees on that. Half the talking heads on the CBC go on and on about birth rates and environmental pollutants affecting fertility, or else the moral argument behind American children under the age of ten being ripped out of their parents' arms, forcibly adopted into "good Christian homes." Currently, some Ben Shapiro-looking motherfucker is squinting into the camera on the TV hanging over the bar, yelling at another woman on the panel about how Americans _deserved_ this, doesn't anyone remember the Trump years, literal _thousands_ of immigrant children dying in detention centers, "lost" in foster care? They brought it on themselves, Gilead emerging, caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly, out of the shameful American legacy of slavery and forced relocation and sterilization and deportation and – and – _and_ –

The captions on the screen jumble and blur, unable to keep up with the speech, and Moira turns her attention back to the group around the table. It's a painfully collegiate atmosphere: American refugees mixed in with volunteers from UToronto's Sociology department, the handful of grad students from York doing pickleback shots at the bar. Erin is across from her in their corner booth, signing with Julie about the protest they have coming up, and Luke is still up at the counter, trying to flag down the bartender, but at her right, Mark snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Fuckin' Canadians, man," he spits, finishing off what Moira thinks might be his fourth beer. "Like no one in this whole fuckin' province had _anything _to do with reservation schools and murdered native kids. Yeah, it's just us _Yanks _that are the problem, not the whole fuckin' _culture _of white supremacy."

Mark Tohn is the newest addition to their sad Saturday night gatherings: a New York native with a Long Island drawl that only gets worse when he drinks, he picks up construction jobs here and there with Luke, but mostly just hangs around the waiting room at the refugee center, waiting for scraps of information on his missing daughter. Most of the time Moira likes him, but sometimes she looks at him and just sees the Ghost of Christmas Future: a version of Luke that's a little more beaten down around the edges, a little more lost, a little more hopeless. It's gotten worse since they found out his wife died – one of the handmaids in the Rachel & Leah bombing – and God only knows where his daughter is, if she'd even _remember_ him if they managed to get her out. Everyone in Little America has the same terrible story, parallel tragedies mirroring off of each other and into infinity, but sometimes it's just… it's like looking directly into the sun. You can't look at it too closely, or you'll just straight-up go insane.

"You said it, man," Luke says then, setting a new pitcher of beer onto the table. He slides in next to Moira and gives her a look that clearly says, _I have no idea what he's going on about_ before pouring her a glass. They toast, quietly, a solid click of glasses between the two of them as the rest of the table follows suit, and Moira drinks deeply and drinks well, her feet aching inside her winter boots after chasing down politicians all day.

Overhead, scenes from a memorial vigil in Montreal for the _Exodus _victims flash on the TV, intercut with handheld camera footage of the ocean liner burning, still shots of passengers jumping overboard into the sea. It's sabotage, what happened, that's what the BBC is saying; Israel wants to lay sanctions on Gilead but the UN refuses, since laying sanctions means acknowledging Gilead as a legitimate, sovereign nation, and accepting their bid for a representative in the World Court. The whole thing's _fucked_, as far as Moira's concerned, and at this point there's no use arguing on what should have been done before the whole world went to hell, what the Canadians would have done differently, how the Brits would have handled the coup. All there is is _now_, and there's a _huge _fucking difference between what these international leaders say and what the general population is hearing; there's a fucking difference between managing global trade networks and giving people a free fucking _pass_ to commit war crimes.

_Words_, after all, have _meaning_.

More video of the _Exodus_ plays, a vertical iPhone recording that cuts off in the middle, when the owner's lifeboat went down. It's vile, and it's new, and both Mark and Moira can't seem to look away. Mark is Jewish but his wife was raised Episcopalian; he's said, in darker moments, that her not converting when they got married probably saved them from getting dumped into the ocean on the _Exodus_ like the rest of the Jews out of New York, that trying to head north and getting caught at the Mass Turnpike checkpoint probably did them all a favor. He says it again now, eyes glassy and turned up toward the screen overhead, watching a rabbi lead the crowd in the Mourner's Kaddish.

"Did you _know_," Mark says, drunk as a goddamn _skunk _but his tone suddenly all eager-professor, leaning on his elbows over the table as he tells them, "That after the Holocaust, rabbis went to Catholic orphanages to reclaim the kids that'd been sent there? During the – during the _war, _people thought they'd be safe in these places, y'know? Like, who's gonna fuck with the Pope? Hitler? Goebbels? The Pope's _bigger_ than all that. _Christianity_ is bigger than that. So they sent their kids to these places thinking they'd be taken care of, and looked after, and they could come and take them home when the worst was over. But the nuns, and the - the _priests_, all they'd say when the rabbis showed up was that there _were_ no Jewish children there, that there _never_ _were_, and they could look all they wanted but they wouldn't find any living on their grounds."

Mark has told this story before – once, twice, five times. Tonight, Moira decides to humor him: "Which was bullshit, right?"

Mark locks eyes with Moira and nods. "_Right_. But these rabbis, see, they'd get to see the kids before they left, and they'd go to the middle of the room and start singing the _Shema_. It's the holiest prayer in the Jewish canon, and you learn it young, _real _young, and all those kids who'd been hidden, who'd maybe had their heritage beaten out of them by their caretakers, they would come up to these rabbis and start singing along. And that's how they knew. That's how they saved them, and they took them _home_."

Marks voice cracks on the last word and the table goes quiet at that, the five of them an island of difficult silence in the noise of the bar. Erin clenches and unclenches her fists on either side of her beer while Julie comforts Mark, whose drunken earnestness has deflated into the blank sadness that usually accompanies these lectures, slinging her arm over his shoulders where he's slumped against the table, rubbing a hand over his back. Moira bites the inside of her lip and chances a glance at Luke, whose face has clouded over in the wake of Mark's words, his expression dark and thoughtful as he rises suddenly from the booth.

"Need a cig," is all he says, shrugging on his coat before anyone can ask, or move to stop him. Erin's mouth twists and Moira watches him go, Luke's broad shoulders working through the crowd as he disappears out the door, and it takes a beat before she remembers that Luke doesn't smoke. She gives him a few minutes before she follows, pulling her beanie on as she goes, her gloves and scarf. It's fucking freezing outside and when she scans the sidewalk there's no sign of him, at first: just a handful of college kids smoking under the awning, a few people wandering in and out of the bodega next door, trying to stay out of the snow that's been falling.

She finds him on a bus stop bench a little ways away from the noise and the light of the bar, still as a statue, staring off into the middle distance like he can see through the buildings, the trees, straight on through to the parts of Gilead where his heart lies. He doesn't look up at her approach and Moira doesn't say anything as she drops down beside him, the two of them just waiting, watching the traffic lights change at the intersection, green to yellow to red to green. She doesn't need to ask to know what he's thinking about: will Hannah know him, if she makes it out? Will she remember how much he loved her, will she recognize his face? She's seen June, they think – the report from Mayday was spotty at best, and there's no guarantee the intel is any good – but it's been five years since that day in the woods, five years of religious indoctrination and adopted parents stamping out any memory of her previous life. Luke keeps her stuffed rabbit on a shelf in their apartment, the last piece he has of her, something physical and real, but maybe she's outgrown her toys, already. Time has not stopped her from growing up without him.

"She's ten next week," is all he says, and Moira leans back against the cold bench, her body pressed against Luke's all along her right side. Moira almost told him once that she thought she understood, now, the pull that June must have felt with him, the trustworthy gravity of his presence that pulled her directly into his orbit when they first met. It's taken her so long to be good with touch again – and it's still not _great_; being in crowds sometimes makes her want to rip her skin off, just the thought of being intimate with someone as _Moira_ instead of _Ruby_ can send her spiraling into a panic attack – but she feels _safe_ with Luke, feels right, feels _normal_.

Luke leans forward and closes his eyes, breathing hard, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he's trying to swallow all of his sadness whole. She pulls off her gloves with her teeth, wool fibers sticking to her tongue, and without saying anything Moira reaches over and clasps Luke's free hand in between both of hers, squeezes, pulls it into her lap to hold. It's not enough, but it's all they have, and eventually, Luke squeezes back.

**. . .**

The call comes in either very late or exceedingly early, depending on your definition: a cargo plane on return flight from Boston with fifty-something children down in the hold, a handful of Marthas, one teenage Wife. The pilot didn't radio Ground Control until they'd passed back into Canadian airspace, the three-man crew all-too aware of the risk they were taking in waiting, but what could they do? Broadcast their location beforehand and let Gilead shoot them down? Turn the plane around and land at Logan, send the kids through the luggage carousel so their kidnappers could pick them up?

Moira thinks of this now as she shouts out orders at the rest of the RAFC setting up emergency services in the hangar, running on maybe two hours' worth of sleep but still feeling amped up and jittery, four espressos-high without the caffeine. They're doing good for less than three hours' notice; they've got ambulances and bottled water and enough thermal blankets to cover an army, the emergency rooms at three different hospitals standing by on alert, just in case they need it. Emily's helping coordinate the medical staff and Luke is setting up the food with Julie and Mark, and beyond the flashing cherry lights of the Immigration vans Moira can see Child Services setting up camp, Refugee Services getting their computers hooked up to the airport system.

_This is it_, she tells herself, rushing to help the ground crew unstick the brakes on the tarmac stairs, her whole body tense with nerves, with anticipation. It's four o'clock in the morning by the time the flight lands and she's the first one through the hatch, the sea of blue and pink in the belly of the plane making her breath catch when she first sees it. All those _kids_… God, she didn't think they would be so _young_.

"My name is Moira," she says, scanning the crowd for Hannah's sweet face, for Janine, for June, "I'm here to help you."

A little girl in the front looks up at her with wide eyes, the innocence there only highlighted by half-light of the cargo hold, the messy braids coming undone beneath her cap. They've seen so much, all of them, walked through hell to get here, but this girl looks up at Moira with big blue eyes and she can't help but think of Hannah when she asks, "Miss? This is the place I can wear what I want?"

Moira bites back a sudden laugh as leans down to her level. "Yes, it is."

That seems to be enough. The girl rises to her feet and carefully leaves through the open hatch, and it is the domino that trips all the others into action: the gaggle of girls around her follow suit, boys and girls in the back holding hands as they carefully move through the front, guided by the few Marthas on board, the volunteers coming in. Moira follows the first child down, relief flooding through her at how _easy_ this is turning out to be: no screaming, no terrible injuries, no fear, not even from the littlest ones. Someone hands her a blanket as she comes off the steps and the first girl – and _Christ_, she's so _small_ – follows Moira off to the side while Luke helps the others down, helps guide them all to warming stations, relief workers bearing animal crackers and kind words. The girl can't stop staring; still in a clear state of shock at her new surroundings, glancing around like she expects it to all crumble to pieces before her, like it'll dissolve into the blue haze of dreams if she looks at it too closely.

"You've gotta be cold," Moira says, wrapping her up, "Here. What's your name?"

"I –"

"Rebecca?"

The girl goes still at the name, mouth falling open, those wide eyes suddenly so scared she looks like she's seen a ghost. Moira turns and it's Mark behind them, approaching slowly, his face gone white with disbelief.

"Do you know him?" Moira asks, unsure of how to handle this, but the girl brushes past her without a word, foil falling from her pink shoulders as she slowly steps forward, sleepwalking toward Mark, who has now dropped to his knees. His voice trembles, full of hope, on the razor's edge of tears, as he says again, "_Rebecca?_"

And it is. Rebecca flings herself into his arms, her cry of _"Daddy!"_ muffled into his shoulder as Mark holds her tight, fully, openly weeping into her hair in the middle of the crowded hangar.

Other volunteers are still moving around them, helping the children off the metal staircase, guiding them to the ambulances, the registry tables, and Moira just feels _struck_, disoriented, watching it all unfold. One of the paramedics waves for her to come over and it takes her a second to unstick her feet from the floor; Moira is caught in a great wave of emotion, the relief she felt earlier twisting up with sadness, astonishment, _joy_, all of it threatening to pull her into the deep undertow of disappointment if she isn't careful. Mark and Rebecca are stones in the midst of a rushing river of people, the two of them still crying, Mark clinging to his daughter like he's afraid she'll be taken from him again, and Moira feels the tears welling up in her eyes she turns. Scratch the surface of the night's success and you will only find more grief; she reaches out for Luke as she moves, grabs him by the wrist as she passes, squeezes, trying to anchor them both.

They don't talk about it until much later, sitting across from each other in the Tim Horton's around the corner from their building in Little America, cheap coffee and a box of timbits on the table between them and the sun coming up through the plate glass window. It's just the two of them, now, Emily gone home to Sylvia, Erin back to the apartment to relieve the babysitter, Julie to her girlfriends' and Mark still with Rebecca at the Immigration intake office.

There was a moment like this, years ago, back when Luke was newly divorced from his first wife and he and June were moving forward, renting that shoebox apartment in Winter Hill and already talking wedding plans, having kids, building a future. June pushed her and Luke together, wanted her two favorite people to get along, so Moira met him for coffee one Saturday at some place on Cambridge Street, this dumb hipster spot she and June used to go to when they were still at Radcliffe, and it was _weird_: Moira still wasn't sold on Luke, not completely, and it took some time for both of them to warm up to each other without June there to keep the peace, to lead the conversation, without _June_, full-stop, who is still now making decisions that they all have to live with. June's absence is still a phantom-limb feeling between them, as painful as an open wound, but they are both lightyears away from the uncomfortable pair making awkward small talk at a table outside Curio Coffee.

Moira is on his list, now. They're as good as blood.

Luke sighs, clearly exhausted, and when he sets down his coffee, he folds his hands on the tabletop, unconsciously rubbing the space where his wedding band should be. "That's great about Mark," he says after a minute, then, "I can't believe she was…"

"Yeah," Moira agrees. "Me either."

"Do you think –" Luke starts but doesn't finish, because they've had this conversation at least twenty times by now, but it still didn't stop either of them from searching for Hannah's face among the other children; it didn't stop Moira's heart from racing throughout the whole conversation with Rita, the Martha from the Waterford house, who told them how June masterminded the whole operation, how June stayed back a second time so she could bring Hannah home. Luke's whole face seems to crumple under the weight of unsaid thoughts, and his voice breaks a little when he says, "Do you think she'll know me?"

_She'll know_, she doesn't say, because there are no guarantees, and it will take a miracle to get either of their girls out of Gilead alive and whole. But they've witnessed three miracles this year alone – Emily and Nichole, the Waterfords arrested, now Mark and Rebecca – and who knows what else can happen, what light the future can bring. Moira nods and lays her hands palm up on the table. Luke huffs out a teary laugh as he leans forward and grasps her hands in his, and Moira holds on tight.


End file.
